


Something Blue, Something New

by lucifers_left_earlobe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:13:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifers_left_earlobe/pseuds/lucifers_left_earlobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request for Dean/Castiel meeting by chance in a small town. I'm going to extend this into a full series because I love the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I'm really sorry about not updating my other fics if you are a reader. It's been finals time, but since they're tomorrow and Tuesday, I'll be free for writing soon. For now, my apology holds.

Dean winces as the loose wire zaps his bare skin, leaving a little scorch mark just above his wrist.

He’s been at work all day, trying to find parts, any part, to fix the old Camino above him, its engine leaking some strange fluids that it should _not_ be leaking. So far his work has been fruitless, exerting more sweat and earning more scars than progress.

For a ’72, the car would run beautifully were it not for the damn engine. Its transmission is in excellent shape, the belt is surprisingly unworn given that it’s the original, and the hoses are all in working order. The source of the fluid is indeterminable, so far as Dean can tell.

“Boy, you ought to take a break,” Bobby grumbles from somewhere above him. He drags himself from the underside of the car, the sudden intrusion of sunlight forcing his eyes shut. “Go down to Ellen’s or something. Work ain’t finished by injuries.”

“Work isn’t done by sittin’ on your ass all day, either.”

“Mind your tone, idjit.” Bobby cuffs a hand onto Dean’s shoulder, a grin pulling at his bearded cheek. Dean returns it, wiping off a bit of the engine grease on his nose before pulling away. “Go shower or something. You need it.”

He nods before pulling away from his uncle, dragging a hand through his hair as he does. Bobby, despite their lack of blood relation, has always been more of a father to him than his own. John had walked out on him and his brother Sam before they’d even reached high school. Leaving only a note and directions to the nearest willing adopter, he’d left in the middle of the night, probably off to some bar or nudie joint before running off with a red haired woman named Ruth.

Dean tries to find excuses for his father; he knows it’s unhealthy but he can’t help it. After idolizing the man for over half of his life, what else could he do? His absence definitely left a prominent gap in the boys’ lives, and Dean noticed it in his brother. The forlorn glances to the floor, the concerned questions of whether Dean’s going to be able to earn them food tonight, the way he asks if Bobby will turn them loose one day; it’s forced Dean into converting his very persona to one resembling his father’s. It’s difficult for him to retain, however; he’s not the hand-working type.

The truth is Dean wants to write songs. He’s always wished to be on a stage somewhere; not in the sappy way, but as an entertainer. A hero. It’s unlikely, he’s well aware, but he can dream. He’ll perform every night at Ellen’s if it means that he’ll be doing what he loves.

His booted feet hit the creaky wooden floor with loud stomps reverberating throughout the quiet house. It’s been like this since Sam’s left for university; the lack of hopeful voices echoing down the halls. He misses the mindless chatter of his brother and his friends.

Ignoring the usual niceties of tucking his boots beneath the bench and washing his hands at the little sink, Dean walks directly to the bathroom at the end of the hall, tossing his clothes off as he walks. The faucet sticks a little as Dean turns it, hot water bursting forth from the nozzle and sloshing wetly over the slick tiles.

He steps in, letting the soothing stream course down his spine, rinsing all of the grime and dirt he’d accumulated throughout the day. It’s relaxing, the simultaneous unwinding of those pinched tendons, the unclenching of over stressed muscles. The break of the train of instant thoughts tearing him apart bit by bit.

Working to put Sammy through college is hard.

He’s saved up a good forty thousand for his brother these past two years, more than making up for the year’s tuition Sam’s required to come up with. Dean lets all of his worries slide down the drain along with the muck and motor oil, humming to ‘Hey Jude’ as he scrubs lazily. He has to go back to work in a couple hours, but he can’t equate performance to work. It’s where he’s his happiest

After a few minutes, he turns off the faucet and climbs out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he ducks out the door and sprints upstairs to his room, pleased to find that he left himself a change of clothes in the morning strewn across his bed. He discards his towel and pulls on the worn jeans and cotton shirt, pleased to be in his comfort clothes.

When he pulls open his door again, he finds Bobby reclining against the ledge of the closet.

“What is it, Bobby?”

“Dean, you should take the rest of tonight and tomorrow off.” Bobby pulls off his hat and shoots Dean a pitiful glance.

“Why?”

“You ain’t supposed to be working as hard as you are on your birthday,” Bobby snaps. His face relaxes from a sudden frustrated contortion and he sighs. “What I’m saying is it ain’t normal for a twenty-one year old kid to be workin’ eighteen hour days. Go hook up with a girl or somethin’.”

Before Dean can respond, the old man is turning into his bedroom and pulling the door shut, muttering something about ‘former glory’ and ‘old girlfriends’. Dean shrugs just before turning to walk down the stairs and out of the door; Bobby wouldn’t know about relaxing any more than Dean would. The poor old bastard hasn’t stopped working since his fifteenth birthday.

Just as he pushes open the creaky door, he grabs a lone set of keys residing on the small coffee -table beside the coat hanger. It’s his last living piece of his father; the beautiful black ’67 Impala was left in front of their dingy apartment all of those years ago, its sleek coat shining in the ironically bright sunlight.

He shakes any remaining thoughts of his father as he walks out into the cool November air, pulling his lapels close as he opens the door and ducks into the car. He places the key in the ignition and feels his baby roar to life, a small smile blooming upon his lips as the vibrations bring some subtle part of him back to life.

Yeah, he can do this.

He pulls the Impala out onto the main highway and drives west, the twenty minute journey shortened by the bud of excitement that happily blooms into anticipation and enjoyment. His favorite parts of his days are at the Roadhouse; he loves meeting people who appreciate his scratchy voice over an old guitar. He likes the priority he gets from curious onlookers and even more curious courters.

He loves that he doesn’t have to hide who he is.

Dean pulls the Impala into the mostly empty lot, glad to see that at least a few customers are bringing Ellen entertainment and potential business. The bell chimes when he pushes the door open, the tired eyes of Jo and Ash glancing his direction.

“Hey, Dean,” Ash mumbles from behind the bar, a beer wrapped in one hand, the other furiously typing something unknown into a shitty computer. He nods in his direction, walking directly to the makeshift musician’s booth at the edge of the bar. Jo’s eyes follow him as he sets up his guitar, arranging the crappy old microphone until the foamy covering just wisps over his lips every time he opens his mouth.

And he plays.

The soft atmosphere of the bar, coupled with the free drinks and generous tips, always swell Dean’s head with a sense of calmness. It’s one of his main reasons for not performing out in the city; it’s so much more _real_ out in the country, so much more relaxed. He can do what he wants without being pressured into something… not him.

He’s just strumming out the beginning of ‘Ramble On’ when the door to the bar is pushed open. Dean’s eyes shift upwards towards the customer, a man, and… his fingers have stopped their playing.

Quickly, he recovers the music, continuing on where he left up with barely a noticeable pause. But Jo’s eyes tell otherwise. Dean watches as she glances towards the guest and back to him, her eyebrows shooting directly towards her hairline. Dean tries his best to ignore it, to return to his playing as usual, but the guy is watching him from the bar; those faded blue eyes scan over his hand lazily plucking the strings, to his mouth lazily repeating lyrics.

Dean can’t keep his eyes off the guy. Off of his chapped, puffy pink lips; off of the light dusting of stubble over his jaw; off of the ridiculously mussed hair atop his head. Off of the intelligent, beautiful blue eyes concealed by thick rimmed glasses.

He… wouldn’t. Dean isn’t in to guys, never has been. But this guy; he’s almost beautiful. Dean’s never seen a woman as beautiful as the stranger; hell, he’s never seen _anyone_ as beautiful as the stranger, but it doesn’t change the fact that Bobby would kill him and Sam would question him.

So he continues his set, his eyes directed solely to the floor beneath his feet as he quickly finishes the Zeppelin songs and begins his Beatles set. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that the guy has stopped drinking and has focused on Dean completely, the bourbon in his glass left neglected as a small smile pushes little wrinkles into the skin around his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeeeah.”

Dean smiles at the meager applause, only waiting a moment to tuck his guitar back into the old wooden case and smooth his clothes down to head out into the cold, autumn air. However, he only gets as far as out of the booth before his foot catches in some microscopic knob on the floor after a deep voice beckons him backwards.

“You have a nice voice.”

Dean turns to glance over his shoulder at the handsome man, a small ceramic cup clasped between his hands. Ellen must’ve offered him a hot coffee; it’s not unusual for her to offer them up free during the cold months.  His fingers trace over the smooth surface of the mug; those long, bony fingers flexing and relaxing as they go about their movement.

His fucking _hands_? Really? Dean’s never thought a person’s hands were attractive before; they’ve always just been hands. But now… now he’s imagining those hands on his body, those hands tracing over the soft line of bone, caressing the slight curve of muscle.

“Uh, thanks.” Dean’s hands fidget up to his jacket, fingers clenching over the course fabric. When the hell did he get so nervous? “I, um, try my best.”

The guy nods at him, one of those hands reaching up to remove the dorky glasses from the bridge of his nose. And _whoa._ The man’s eyes are prettier than Dean thought they had been concealed beneath those thick frames. The twinkling sky blue is framed by a thick layer of dark eyelashes, almost forcing Dean to have eye contact with the man. The small wrinkles are slightly more noticeable with the removal of the concealment, suggesting the man is older than Dean had initially thought; maybe he’s thirty-something.

“Would you like to have a drink?” The guy shifts in his seat, turning towards Dean as one hand pats the chair beside his own.

“Uh,” comes Dean’s genius response, his jaw going slack when he sees that the man has just invited him for a drink. Hesitantly, he takes a step towards the stranger; he’s done things like this before. Finding a woman or a man who thinks he’s ‘pretty’ and exploiting their interest for the welfare of himself and his brother. The guy notices Dean’s hesitancy almost immediately though, disproving Dean’s hypothesis that the guy had wanted something more physical.

“Unless you have other things to do, of course.”

“No, no. I’m free.” At least he’s free now.

“Oh, okay.”

Dean sets his guitar in the music booth and walks to the bar, settling himself beside the stranger. Jo immediately walks to the pair of them, obnoxiously asking whether they’d like anything to drink or eat. The stranger dismisses her with a smile, but not before she can give Dean a number of suggestive glances and questioning grimaces.

“So, um, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” the deep voice of the man asks. Dean turns from his glare at Jo to glance at the guy, scanning his handsome features for any sign of potential murderer or serial killer. When he finds none, he answers, “Dean.”

“I’m Castiel.”

“That’s a strange name.”

“My parents were bible thumpers.” The guy takes a long sip from his mug, his eyes breaking contact with Dean, finally, to pick at some phantom string on his pleated dress pants. When he finishes, he sets the cup back down onto the counter, refocusing on Dean.

“So you play guitar and sing songs?”

Dean squirms in his seat. “Yeah, sort of.” He doesn’t really; it’s more of a side job for him despite the fact that he loves it more than his main job. He’s been dying to leave South Dakota since he was eighteen, desperate for what he knew he could never have. “I, uh, work in a garage at my uncle’s salvage yard.”

Castiel’s face develops a somewhat pensive look, his eyes scanning over Dean with an almost suspicious zeal. “So you would know how to fix a car that’s puttered out on the side of a street?” His brows knit over those beautiful blue eyes, his hand lifting the bulky glasses back onto his nose.

“Yeah, I would.”

“Then are you free now?” Castiel asks. After a moment’s consideration, he double takes. “I’ll pay you, of course. Whatever it is you want.”

Dean grins and pushes himself from his stool at the bar. “Nah, man. You don’t have to pay.” He holds out a hand for Castiel, lets his eyes graze over the Clark Kent-like exterior and allowing himself a smidgen of interest. The warm grip of Castiel’s fingers envelopes his own and he pulls his new acquaintance to his feet, for once moderately pleased with the circumstance that allowed them to meet.

And the smile he wears out of the bar doesn’t seem to come off for the rest of the evening.

* * *

* * *

Castiel is a lot stranger than Dean had initially thought.

He works in a university; he’s a TA to a professor of literature but he’s currently editing books for some company in some big city. Cas wants to become a writer at some point, but he’s too poor to fund the craft as it is.

Cas likes to talk about his brothers and sisters, but never his parents. Dean doesn’t ask, but he suspects that his parents are against Cas’s being out of the closet. He has six siblings in total; Anna, Michael, Luke, Sam, Naomi, and Hael. Most of his family is ridiculously successful; Michael and Luke are both professional athletes and Hael is a backup singer for Cher.

Dean finds himself staring more and more at Castiel’s hands, at his lips, focusing on the lighter speckles of blue in his eyes. Occasionally, a fresh burst of blush would tint his cheeks a lovely shade of pink, but it would fade as quickly as it came. Whenever he talks about some strange aspect of his life (his affinity for plaid suits, his love for indie folk singers, his strange tendency to reply to sass with bad puns), a tiny smile erupts upon his lips, deepening all of those wrinkles into a beautiful grin.

Dean thinks Cas is beautiful.

He spends more time focusing on his companion than he does on the road, his eyes slanting towards Cas whenever he says something particularly interesting or snarky. Just as he realizes he’s gazing at Castiel, he spots a rusty old Yugo parked on the side of the highway out of the corner of his eye.

“Is this it?” Dean nods towards the old car.

“Yes.”

Dean pulls the Impala towards the side of the road, directly across the freeway from the beat up junker. Damn, Cas needs a better car; Dean’s baby is old, but this thing has been neglected.

“Jesus, Cas.” Dean steps out of the Impala and crosses the highway, eyes focused on the almost completely rusted through bumper. “Ever consider a mechanic?”

He glances to his sheepish companion, Cas’s eyes directed towards his shoes with an impish grimace strewn over his features. “No. I’ve never had the money or time.”

“Well, now you don’t have an excuse,” Dean murmurs. He stands from his stooped position, smoothing out his jeans as he straightens up. “C’mon, let’s go hook her onto the back of baby. You’re going to have to stay in tonight.”

Cas’s footsteps follow him across the highway as he makes his way to his trunk. He pops the key into the little lock and tugs open the trunk to fish out the ancient chains Bobby had given for emergency. Thank God he has them; he didn’t want to leave Cas stranded on the side of the road like some sick puppy.

“All right, go hook this end up to the notch under the… yeah, right there.” Cas awkwardly connects the chains to form a makeshift loop around the trailer hitch at the back of the Yugo. When he gives Dean a questioning look, Dean offers him a nod and a smile and beckons him back to the car. “If it’s fine with you, I’d like to take it to Bobby’s for the night. Are you staying anywhere in town?”

Cas nods that he is.

“All right, I can drop you off on the way there.” Dean opens the driver’s door and settles himself into the warm interior of the car, relishing in the fact that he even _owns_ a functioning vehicle. Cas follows his lead and settles in beside him, pulling the door shut with a quiet click.

“Harvelle’s then?”

“Yeah, the one behind the Roadhouse?” Castiel gives him a slight grin as he buckles himself into the seat.

“Yup.” Dean grins as he pulls back onto the road, heading back in the direction they came from.

* * *

* * *

They arrive at Harvelle’s within a half hour, the sun having long set and light flakes of snow settling into their hair as they step out of the warm car. Castiel pulls his blazer to his ears as he emerges, nose wrinkling at the chilly air.

“Don’t like the cold?” Dean grins at his companion, offering him his scarf as he walks into the building.

“No. I’m from California so I never really got used to it,” Castiel replies as he takes the scarf and wraps it around his neck. He’s almost adorable with the accoutrement; the bundled up look bringing at least fifteen years off his face. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d guess they were the same age.

“Well, South Dakota is not the place for you, my friend,” Dean murmurs. They step up to the wooden door, hands stuffed into pockets and noses quickly reddening. “I, uh, I’m going to head back.” Dean scuffs one of his boots over the cement below his feet.

Castiel glances towards the ground, those lovely black lashes creating dancing patterns along his cheeks. “Yes, I suppose that would be wise.” One of his hands shifts in his pocket, pulling something out. After a moment, those beautiful blue eyes are back on Dean, pinning him where he stands and leaving him breathless.

“I…I guess I’ll need your phone number so you can tell me when the car’s fixed.”

“…I suppose so.”

Dean fidgets on his feet for a moment, an awkward blush blooming on his cheeks. Slowly, he retracts his cell from his pocket, handing it to the man before him. Cas sets his phone into his hand and he pulls it close as he enters his number in.

When he hands it back, Dean swears Cas’s fingers trail along the back of his hand for a moment. The already peachy blush on his cheeks deepens as he stuffs the phone into his pocket, his fidgeting growing more and more noticeable with each passing second. When the hell did he get so awkward?

“I guess I’ll, uh, text you.” Dean pulls his collar in close, the cold suddenly becoming too much. He offers Cas one grin before he bids his adieu. “I’m going to head out then. Later, Cas.”

Castiel smiles in return, blue eyes crinkling with the effort and cheeks reddening at the directness. He pulls a hand from his pocket and gives him a slight wave before he turns and pulls the door to Harvelle’s open.

“Goodbye, Dean.”


	2. I Think I Might Like It Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes home from his encounter with Castiel. He's riled, if nothing else. Castiel is in a similar state as he prepares for his meeting with Dean the following morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for dorky texting and awkward masturbating so excuse my excessive use of it.

The clock reads 1:32 in flashing white letters. Shit.

Dean pulls off his clunky boots one at a time, minding Bobby’s rule about not making too much noise after midnight. Well, that’s not true; Bobby prefers that all the doors be shut, locked, and checked before eleven, but sometimes accidents happen.

He creeps up the rickety stairs that he’s been nagging Bobby to let him repair; one of these days the old coot’s going to fall and break something. He minds his footsteps when he passes Bobby’s room, aware of the man’s tendency to sleep with one eye open.

To Dean’s relief, Bobby doesn’t startle and he quietly shuts the door to his bedroom. Immediately he runs to the comfort of his bed, his heart beat racing like the Impala’s wheels on the freeway.

Blue eyes.

Dean can’t get blue out of his mind; the blue of a stormy sea, the blue of the faded denim adorning his legs, the blue of the twilight sky. Long legs and arched lips; Dean squeezes his eyes shut and purges any ‘unsightly’ thoughts from his mind. Cas is just a stranger that needed help. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still, it doesn’t stop his brain from teasing him with long expanses of tanned skin and the hot pressure of moistened lips ghosting over Dean’s body.

He pushes himself from the bed, a frown making its way into his very movements, and shuffles towards his closet. He makes quick business of pulling out a pair of flannel sweatpants and his dad’s old Zeppelin shirt before ducking out the door and tip toeing down the stairs to the bathroom. Maybe a shower will clear his mind.

The floor is still wet from Bobby’s after work scrub and Dean wiggles his toes as he wades through it. The faucet sticks as he turns it, only bursting forth after nearly ripping it from the wall. Steam fills the small room within seconds, swirling around Dean until he can’t help but relax into the warm buzz of the heat.

He steps into the stream and it’s even better; all of his worries seem to melt away, leaving only the faint taste of rhubarb pie and the soft tingle of fingertips brushing his hands. Stop it. The genuine smile crinkling soft, winter colored eyes. Stop it. Pink lips pressed flush against his own, their chapped feel surprisingly soft. Stop it.

Dean glances down to find what was once normal flaccidity has woken to a rather alarming erection.

He tries, _really_ tries, to stamp it down, turning the water to bone shattering cold before abandoning his efforts. Fuck it; Dean’s already going to hell, why not add to the stock pile of sins.

Carefully, he wraps a hand around the base, keeping a hand pressed against the hot tiles to his right. The blue pans out, revealing smooth lips and a soft dusting of charcoal hair; an attractive writer with an attractive persona. He slides his hand up to the leaking tip, swiping his thumb through the bead of clear gathered over the slit. He bites his lip, covering a moan when he feels a softer hand, a writer’s hand.

The gliding continues, picking up a steady rate, and his hips thrust upward to meet his jacks, his hand and another bringing him to orgasm. The tip grows flushed, a deep scarlet dappling his chest and lower stomach as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

And with a cry of a new name, he topples.

“Cas,” Dean moans to no one else. His hand stops its fervent slide and his seed paints the tiles in front of him. The weight of everything just gathers on his shoulders and decides to rest there for a while, slumping him more and more until his head bumps into the cool wall. “Cas.”

Dean finishes his shower, resigning to cleaning only the semen off the wall and his now soft dick, before pulling open the curtain and walking out into the cool air. The towels on the rack look clean enough and he dries himself off, leaving one around his head as he pulls his clothes on and walks over to the mirror.

Jesus, he’s a mess. His eyes are circled in deep purple, his skin sallow and pale, his lips chapped; maybe Bobby was right, maybe he is working too hard. He sighs, grabbing his razor off of the counter and hitting the little switch at the side, buzzing off two weeks’ worth of accumulated stubble.

When he finishes, he tip toes back up the creaky stairs and into his room, gently pulling the door shut behind him. The phone on the bed is flashing; a text message. Dean keeps his thoughts void of his new acquaintance as he goes to check it. It’s an unknown number. He taps the little ‘ok’ button and the screen flashes to a message that drops his stomach through the floor.

**_hello, this is Castiel_ **

Dean smiles at the formalness of Cas’s texting tone before realizing he let the expression cross his face. He taps the reply button before staring at the blank space allocated for his message. After a moment, he settles on simple.

**_hey cas_ **

Short, sweet, and stupid; Dean’s preferred way of doing things. He reclines against the headboard, not tired enough to sleep but not awake enough to drive the Impala halfway to nowhere. The phone buzzes a moment later.

**_How are you?_ **

Dean can’t help the snort that slips through his lips; it’s all so awkward. If Cas is this fucking socially awkward in his texts, what hope does Dean have of- He brushes the thought before it fully forms, resigning to replying with a grin.

**_tryna sleep. u?_ **

The phone buzzes within a second. **_Me too._** Just as Dean is tapping out a reply it buzzes once more. **_Would it be all right if you come by Harvelle’s to pick me up tomorrow morning?_** Dean smirks, of course it’s all right. Hell, the only thing stopping him from driving to that shitty motel right now is the remaining guilt his father instilled in him for not being conventional. And even that’s wearing thin.

**_yeah. do you wanna grab breakfast or something first?_ **

Dean hits send and immediately regrets it. He’s just met the man for fuck’s sake; he shouldn’t be prepositioning him. Well, no, he’s not prepositioning him. He’s merely making friends, like Bobby wanted. The buzz of a text tears him from his thoughts and he grapples for his phone, checking for the much anticipated response.

**_Yes._ **

Dean smiles into the darkness. **_okay i’ll pick you up at seven. dress in shitty clothes cos i’m going to show you something_**. Dean could almost puke from the cutesiness of it; but he doesn’t. He’s elated. He’s _happy_. Sam would probably gawk at him before slapping some sense at him but Dean doesn’t care.

**_Okay, Dean. Sleep well._ **

**_night cas_ **

Dean sets his phone on the nightstand before rolling over and settling himself into the homey comfort of the lumpy mattress. It’s strange; Dean’s been sleeping in the same bed for almost five years now. It’s a nice kind of strange though, a reassuring strange.

His heart rate can’t seem to stutter down from its nervous high, even as his lids droop over his tired eyes. Maybe it’s the anticipation, maybe it’s something else; but Dean knows that for the first time in a while, he’s content.

And, content, he drifts into a sated sleep, dreaming of warm arms and shining blue eyes.

* * *

* * *

 

When he wakes, the sun is just peeking through the drawn curtains.

Castiel glances around the barren room, at his sparse belongings and feels a smile bloom over his lips. He pushes himself from his bed, not caring about the cold that dapples goose bumps over his skin, indifferent to the neglected morning wood from dreams of green and scattered freckles.

He gets to see Dean again.

Castiel grins as he walks to his suitcase, peeling back the zipper to find ‘shitty clothes’ as Dean had so eloquently put it. The least formal items he can find are a pair of worn faded jeans, a soft cotton button up, and a wool insulated leather jacket. He supposes they’ll have to do and he lays them on his bed before turning towards the bathroom.

Harvelle’s Motel is nice; sure, it’s bound to have a couple of insects and strange smells, but it’s still nice. Cozy. Castiel never has time to stop in these sorts of places in San Francisco; it’s always so ‘hustle and bustle’ as they say. The atmosphere has never appealed to him so much as the barrenness of the Midwest.

He twists the faucet for the shower. A thin stream of water dribbles out of the nozzle. Castiel raises his hand to the water, smiling when he finds that it’s warm, before stepping in and letting it slide over his shoulders.

Dean is an interesting character; his mannerisms are something completely new for Castiel. He’s brazen, charming, intelligent despite his best efforts, handsome, and, though it’s not as obvious as the other traits, Castiel believes the man is cripplingly and tragically depressed. Still, he doesn’t want to avoid him; he _likes_ him, more than he’s liked anyone in years.

Castiel’s cock twitches from the memory of the man’s face.

His hand slides down his chest with agonizing slowness, just as Castiel loves. His fingers encompass his achingly stiff member, his head tossing back when he lets himself slide from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head just before dipping back down. He supposes he may be a little self-indulgent, possibly even narcissistic, but he can’t bring himself to care as he imagines Dean’s beautiful freckled skin, all of it.

He only picks up the pace when his eyes land on the tufty golden brown hair adorning Dean’s cock.

Within minutes, he’s brought to a writhing mess by his own hand, his lip chewed into a puffy mess as he jacks himself senseless. The water has long since chilled to subpar shower temperatures, but Castiel can’t bring himself to stop.

He comes with a shout.

Droplets of white dribble into the wall as he shouts Dean’s name, his eyes rolling back in his head as his knees buckle with the sheer weight of his orgasm. His heart’s beating a mile a second in his chest, his lungs gasping for air desperately, wheezily.

After a moment, and after he’s regained any semblance of a solid state, he climbs from the shower, gingerly wrapping a towel around his waist. His legs are shaky and his penis is sensitive but he’s still happy, still able to smile.

A knocking at his door ruptures him from his thoughts.

“Who’s there?” he calls from near his bed, pulling on his clothes hastily as he scrambles towards the door.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Novak.” It’s the rustic twang of Ellen Harvelle, the sharpness in her tone strong and awake, despite the early hour. “Dean Winchester.”

Dean.

“Could you tell him I’ll be down in a moment?” Castiel asks, tucking his wallet into his back pocket and finding his keys in the drawer in the small nightstand. “I just have to grab a few things.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

Footsteps paddle away from Castiel’s room and he heaves a sigh of relief. Dean hadn’t forgotten the appointment; he’d cared enough to follow through. Castiel hates how reliant he is upon stranger’s company; he ought to make a couple more friends when he gets back home.

Once he’s gathered everything, he walks out of the room, minding the lock on the door. He follows the hallway to the main lobby, eyes scanning for the freckled man he’s grown fairly attached to in the past twelve hours. Within a moment, he spots him.

And Castiel thought he was beautiful yesterday; that doesn’t even compare to how he looks now.

Dean’s dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a hole worn through in one knee. A pale green flannel rests over his torso, enunciating his eyes even from this distance. His hair doesn’t have any of the slick gel that had adorned it yesterday; it’s merely tousled into relative submission.

What’s best is the lack of bags beneath Dean’s eyes, the actual inklings of life in his skin.

Castiel walks to his visitor, smiling as he steps up to him and meets the man’s eyes. “Hello, Dean.” He awkwardly stuffs his hands in his pockets as he lets a shy smile bloom on his lips.

Dean rubs a hand into the short hairs at his nape. “Heya, Cas.”

They awkwardly stand there, neither of them willing to breach the line into familiarity. Castiel steals a glance at Dean’s lips, at his eyes, at the smear of freckles over the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but grin at the image before he lets his eyes trail back to his feet. He should say something.

“So-”

“I-”

“You first,” Dean murmurs, a faint blush decorating his cheeks.

“Are you ready to go?” Castiel asks, his eyes finally trailing back up to his companion. Dean offers him a grin and for a moment, Castiel thinks his heart stops.

He thinks he may have been staring at the beautiful grin a moment too long because it drops from Dean’s face and the man offers him a weary frown.

“Cas?”

Castiel shakes his head once, twice, before answering Dean with a smile. “Nothing. Are you ready?”

Dean nods and leads the way into the parking lot, the cool air hitting him bone deep. He pulls his jacket to his cheeks, teeth immediately chattering at the sudden winter gusts.

“Not used to the cold, eh?”

Castiel shakes his head before tugging his jacket in closer. He should’ve packed heavier clothes, maybe worn eleven more coats. And a blanket. He shuts his eyes at the harsh wind, eyes watering uncontrollably as they make the short trek to the Impala residing at the far end of the parking lot.

When a warm arm winds around his shoulders, Castiel starts. He glances to his companion, surprised at the closeness and the heat radiating off of Dean’s chest like a furnace. It’s nice; it’s more than nice.

Castiel feels his heart swell at the gesture, despite his best efforts.

The contact breaks in seconds when they shuffle into the inviting heat of the Impala, Castiel finally breathing out a sigh at the running heater and the warm interior. It would be perfect were it not for the ACDC blasting from the speakers as though Dean was a teenager getting his fill.

Castiel glances at Dean, supposing that maybe that’s not too far off. The thought chills him more than the winter air.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“How old are you?” Castiel warily knots his fingers together, suddenly too aware of everything; of his age, of his stability, of his calmness and refined behavior. It would be nice, considering… But Dean is so opposite to that, so careless and so filled with dreams.

“Twenty-one. Why?”

Castiel huffs a deep sigh. Six years.

“No reason. I’m twenty-seven, just so you know.”

Castiel scrutinizes Dean, scrutinizes his reaction. All that he observes is a contented smile and careless indifference as he pulls the Impala out of the lot and onto the main highway, his eyes shining as he gets the car going.

The drive is quiet, comfortable. Dean hums along to the music which he, thankfully, turned down a few notches. His fingers tap on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the empty road. After a few minutes of Castiel merely watching the man, Dean catches his eye and smirks.

“See anything you like?”

Castiel blushes, shifting his eyes to his hands and twirling his thumbs. “No.”

Dean snorts, letting himself recline back into the seat, squeaking the aged leather as he does so. One of his hands slides from the wheel and he slides a knuckle down Castiel’s cheek which, much to Castiel’s chagrin, reddens further.

“Sure looks like you do,” he murmurs, removing his hand from Castiel and placing it between their hips. The rest of the ride is awkward, a strange electricity humming in the air between them. If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d call it tension.

They arrive at the repair shop shortly. It’s grand; there are hundreds, if not, thousands of cars littering the yard. Bits and pieces of old mechanisms decorating the driveway as Dean pulls in. There is a small house residing in the midst of all the clutter. It would be quaint were it not for its more dystopian surroundings.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, a hint of worry creeping into his tone.

“I know it ain’t much but Bobby is the best mechanic in the state, if not then this side of the Mississippi.” He grins as he pulls the car next to an older looking, more beaten corvette. “We’ll get the junker fixed up in no time, dude.”

Dean pulls the keys from the ignition and the engine roar dies. He climbs out of the car and Castiel decides to follow suit, not entirely sure of the necessity of his being here if they’re just going to fix cars. Warily, he pauses beside the Impala, eyes focused on Dean’s broad shoulders as he walks up to the house. When Dean notices the lack of accompanying footsteps he turns with a grin.

“C’mon, I promised you breakfast didn’t I?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel meets Sam Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been updating at all, and that's mostly due to business but also laziness. I'm sorry; I'll be going back and adding chapters to everything that hasn't been updated (so everything). This will continue as it can, though the chapters will be downsized as to accommodate my schedule. -Dee

Bobby Singer is an interesting man.

Castiel watches as the man glares at Dean, shoveling eggs into his mouth as he does so. He appears uncaring of the mess accumulating in his beard, and even more uncaring of Castiel’s presence. Every so often, he will mutter something about keeping him better updated about visitors, and after a few short minutes he pushes out of his chair and strides from the dining room.

“Is he always like that?” Castiel asks, tilting his head towards Dean.

Dean nods, stuffing a mouthful of eggs into his mouth, moaning around their taste. He swallows before swiping his sleeve over his lips. “Yeah, Bobby’s sort of… well, not mean, but he’s pretty grumpy like, all the time.”

Castiel nods, stabbing the last bite of his eggs and forking them into his mouth before pushing away from the table and heading to the sink. The counter is flooded with unwashed dishes, the sink piled with pots and pans long since used.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, trying to keep the disgust from his tone. “Have you ever done dishes?” Castiel doesn’t add ‘in your life’ because as he glances over his shoulder, it becomes obvious that no, Dean hasn’t recently, if ever, done dishes.

“I just haven’t had the time,” Dean murmurs, pushing away from the table and walking to stand beside Castiel. “It’s Bobby’s job, anyways.”

He almost looks sheepish as he glances to the floor, a fain blush blooming on his cheeks. Castiel has an overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke over the slope of his freckled cheek, but he holds, instead opting to turn and push up his sleeves.

“Well, it’s about time you learn.”

Castiel plucks a filthy pan from the soiled water, finding a relatively clean sponge strewn over the ledge before pulling a bottle of soap from beneath the sink. Castiel is just dribbling the viscous blue liquid onto the pan when freckled hands settle over his own.

“Cas, don’t. You’re not supposed to clean up after people when you’re the guest.” Dean’s fingers flex over Castiel’s wrists before pulling the pan from his grasp, taking the sponge from his hand before scrubbing at the filthy metal and laying the pan on a clean patch of counter. “Besides, I know how to do dishes, moron. What do you take me for?”

Castiel glances to his face, finding his lips turned up in a smirk before ducking his head to hide his blush. “You assbutt,” he mutters, knocking his shoulder’s into the taller man’s.

The atmosphere grows stuffy, and Castiel steps away, clearing his throat before fixating Dean with a steady stare. “So… are you going to show me how you, um, do your thing?” He feels awkward standing in a stranger’s kitchen, watching as a handsome mechanic laughs and lifts a brow, gesturing towards the front door before spinning on his heel and walking towards the coat rack.

“Yeah, Cas.” Dean pulls his coat over his shoulders before handing Castiel’s his own. “We’ll start with the routine checks and then…”

Castiel smiles as Dean babbles on about the various parts of a car, his face animated as he recounts the details of mechanisms so far beyond Castiel that he has to nod simply to urge Dean’s tidal wave of excited language on. He finds himself less enthralled in what Dean talks about and more in Dean himself.

The arch of his brows as he grins at the way a transmission is hooked up, the glint of his smile as he rambles on about oil changes, the scrunch of his nose as he recounts being shocked by a loose wire on a battery.

They wander out the door, headed towards the barren garage situated at the end of the littered lot. Dean continues his teaching, telling Castiel that one has to avoid cracking the oil pan, or stripping the plug, or dropping an oil cap into the valve cover when conducting an oil change. He laughs when he discusses the first and last time his brother assisted with one of his own oil changes; apparently, the boy poured transmission fluid into the pipe rather than oil and it resulted in a burnt bearing.

Castiel doesn’t understand a word he says, but he follows his instruction when they enter the garage. Tools decorate the walls, more cars, nice cars and even a few motorcycles are parked in the garage, their sleek coats glimmering in the bright, oppressive light.

“Wow,” Castiel breathes, sliding a finger over one of the finest classic Davidson’s he’s ever seen.

Dean snorts, tossing an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “I know. Bobby’s been working up quite a collection.”

Castiel nods, letting his eyes scan the room, searching out the tools that might go to fixing his car. The whole atmosphere is pretty overwhelming; he doesn’t belong in places like these. Castiel doesn’t know a thing about cars, let alone advanced engineering. “What is it we’ll be doing to my car?” He asks, glancing to Dean.

“Well, we need to look at the belt, but otherwise I won’t know until I strip her a little more.” Dean pulls away, leaving Castiel cold as he heads towards the door. “C’mon, we’re going to have to push it in to get anything done.”

* * *

* * *

 

Castiel doesn’t know a thing about mechanics.

Dean pushed him under the car on his glorified skateboard, muttering that he’s too big to fit under the meager amount of space the small tires allow. Castiel doesn’t understand why he has to sit under his own less than sanitary car; he doesn’t know anything beyond what a battery is and even then, he wouldn’t be able to fix it were he told to.

“Dean,” Castiel mutters, lifting his- what the hell is that, anyways? A wrench? “I really think you should be the one doing this.”

He hears laughter above him before Dean’s handsome face looms into view. He’s resting on his arm, his bright eyes focused onto Castiel as he grins like this is the best thing to happen.

“Don’t be stupid, Cas.” Dean reaches under the ledge of the car, his hand settling over Castiel’s as he gently coaxes his hand from some assortment of tubes. “You really think I’d let you fix your car? Dude, c’mon I bet you’ve never gotten your hands dirty a day in your life.”

Castiel huffs, despite the truth the statement carries. He sighs before letting his hands fall from his vehicle. “Then what should I do?” He surveys his surroundings; it’s not like he can stand, much less roll. He twists his hand below Dean’s, letting his fingers clench desperately onto the younger man’s hand.

“Let’s slide you on out,” is all the warning he gets as strong arms slide under his elbows, carefully yanking him from the underside of his Yugo. His lips part in surprise when he’s lifted into Dean’s lap, his eyes curious as they scan over the younger man’s.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, but when he notices Dean’s slightly peachy complexion, he shuts his mouth.

It’s not like Castiel hasn’t thought about it in the brief amount of time he’s known Dean; hell, _that’s_ all that seemed to be on his mind these past few hours. Dean-his smile, his laugh, his eyes, his hands, the prospect of them sliding over Castiel’s body; except this is so very different. Dean isn’t that man that he dreamt of. He’s a real person.

But damn, Castiel hopes he at least feels a little similarly.

Apparently, he does, as yet another gasp slips from Castiel’s lungs as Dean’s head looms in his vision. His plump lips slide close to Castiel’s face, close enough that his eyelids flutter shut and his spine arches towards his almost-touch.

Of course, something decides to clatter to the floor, obnoxiously, at that moment.

“Shit!” A stranger’s voice yelps. Castiel pushes himself into seating position, leaning his elbows onto his knees as Dean’s hands depart his body. He watches as a large body bounds around the wall, his head adorned with long hair and a scowling mug.

Castiel almost yelps when Dean tugs him up.

“Sammy?” His voice sounds as confused as Castiel feels.

The alleged Sammy nods before stepping forwards, a large grin splayed over his features before he wraps his gigantic arms around Dean’s shoulders. “Heya, Jerk.”

“Bitch, what are you doing back so soon?”

Castiel watches as the pair converses, unaware of why these two men are so fraternized so quickly. It hits him not a moment later, and not with the winding of Dean’s arm around his shoulders.

“Cas, this is Sam. Sam-Cas.” He gestures in the air between them, as though that’s supposed to create some impetus for them to suddenly become best friends. When it doesn’t, Dean rolls his eyes and pulls Castiel forward, settling beside him as Sam watches them with a bemused expression on his face.

“Um, hello Sam.” Castiel reaches out his hand, almost gawking when it’s swallowed up in the large man’s hand as though it belonged to a small child.

“Hey, Cas! Nice to see my brother’s finally, uh, seeing someone.” To add mortification to the remark, Sam winks at him, raising his brows at Castiel and Dean’s perfectly timed blushes.

“It’s not like that-”

“We just met-”

“He’s too good for me-”

Sam laughs before clapping them both on their shoulders. “Relax, I’m not here to demonize you for doing whatever the fuck it is you do.” He glances over their heads to Castiel’s car, his eyes squinting with barely concealed laughter as he takes it in.

Castiel doesn’t back down to the glance though. “What?”

Sam peers down at him. “Hmm? Nothing.”

“Uh-huh, that’s exactly what Dean said.” Castiel folds his hands on his hips, raising a brow at the gigantic man. “It’s sensible.”

Sam’s laughter spills free of his lips like water a dam. He holds his stomach before smiling up at Castiel, his hazel eyes cheerful with honest joy.

“Dude, you’re weird,” he says.

“So I’ve heard.”

Castiel finds him laughing with the man nonetheless, a confused Dean glancing between their shaking bodies. He notices the heavy, persisting weight of a hand on the small of his back though, something he hadn’t thought would even be there, let alone so soon.

When he regains his bearings, he glances up to Dean, finding a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes dart down to meet Castiel’s, his small smile curling into a grin in answer. His hand slides up to Castiel’s shoulder blades in urge to move him towards the door. Castiel complies, peering up at Sam to find a somewhat clenched expression on his face, his lips clamped tight as his eyes smile.

Castiel almost smirks when he hears Dean say, “Shut it, bitch.”

A swell of bliss courses through his veins at the odd familiarity between him and Dean and his brother. It’s odd, but he feels like he’s been in town for more than a mere day; rather, it seems like he’s been here for weeks, months almost.

Maybe that can be made truth, he thinks as he steps into the frigid air, Sam’s footsteps a steady crunch beside him, Dean’s hand a gentle weight over him.

Perhaps he can stay a while longer. 


End file.
